


Bound to Happen

by tincturedwords



Series: No Notion of Halves [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Caretaking, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Drowners (The Witcher), Explicit Language, Fever, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Cares About Jaskier | Dandelion, Herbology, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Literal Sleeping Together, Massage ( sort of ), Mentioned Eskel (The Witcher), Monster of the Week, No Sex, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Sharing a Bed, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Senses, Witcher Signs (The Witcher), Worried Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28008093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tincturedwords/pseuds/tincturedwords
Summary: As humans are wont to do, Jaskier falls ill whilst on the road with Geralt and there’s naught he can do to hide it from the Witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: No Notion of Halves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057616
Comments: 56
Kudos: 134





	1. Not Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** ¡Spoilers! Explicit Language , Descriptions of Illness , Descriptions of Sickness , Vomiting , Crude Humour , & Mentions of Food / Eating.  
>  **Timeline:** Set post _Four Marks_ ( s01e02 ) , pre - _Of Banquets , Bastards , & Burials_ ( s01e04 )  
>  **Pairings:** Gen.  
>  **A/N:** I wanted to write something that sort of explained why Geralt was near Tameria during winter time & not at or closer to Kaer Morhen. I know the Witchers don’t spend every winter there, but still thought Jaskier falling ill would have hampered his plans to head further North before the pass closed with snow.  
> No beta thus all mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _The Witcher_. Neither am I associated with Andrzej Sapkowski , Netflix , the publication companies of the books , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes.

" Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. " **\- William Shakespeare ; _The Passionate Pilgrim_**

The stew was warm and excellently spiced, although the potatoes and carrots were of two different consistencies. Soft and tender, near melting in his mouth, whereas others were more formed and held a near audible crunch to them. Judging by the slightly watery quality to the stew and the sparse trimmings of soft meat, it would seem the tavern had underestimated the amount of food needed for tonight’s patrons. Having needed to add both water and new stocks of vegetables to the stew in order not to run out nor skimp those eating tonight. 

That , or in now noticing the empty tables and multiple seats at the bar, Jaksier came to another conclusion. A rather revolting one at that, this was leftover from whatever hadn’t been served out the night before. Mixed in with fresher ingredients that hadn’t the ample time of being cooked twice over as the other vegetables had. 

It was a practise that seemed common, although naught an innkeeper worth their pride would ever say as such, and usually it was fine seeing as Geralt hadn’t stopped eating nor seemed bothered by any smell or scent that came from their fare. If anyone were to spy a spoilt cut of meat or coming to rot vegetables first, it would be the Witcher. It had happened on a few occasions, and Geralt had always warned Jaskier away from eating ere he put the spoon to his lips. 

Yet thinking of the stew left to congeal and grow cold sitting over night only to be reheated and added to for the next day’s meal, had Jaskier’s stomach clenching. Feeling not quite queasy but finding himself decidedly off put by dinner now, he lifted his tankard to take a sip ale. 

Warm and dark the brew was. A standard in the far North given the colder climates throughout the year, all things hearty and filling were a standard at any table. Much appreciative Jaskier would have been for it, usually as it was not watered down nor did it have a taste of poor fermenting, but this night it simply left a bitter and thick taste along his tongue that didn’t help unsettle the sudden tightness in his middle. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Jaskier’s gaze flicked from where he’d been staring into his bowl, idly twirling the pewter spoon through the still half-full dish, to where the witcher sat across from him. The other’s own portion was near gone, a heel of bread sitting in the juices left behind to grow soft and more palpable. But gone was his attention on his meal, focused on the bard now. 

Jaskier made a high hum of enquiry instead of outrightly asking for clarification. At seeing Geralt’s eyebrows furrow at it, he realised that was more telling towards something being the matter than anything else. Thus he cleared his throat. 

“Ah, nothing, nothing.” Jaskier smiled, feeling a touch better now that he’d stopped eating and had something else to focus on, “Just considering if it’s worth playing tonight here or not. There’s very little in attendance, but who knows, they may prove generous.” 

His words drew both their gazes towards the rest of the room from their corner table. It appeared to be only locals seated about, aside from themselves and another man in the garb of a merchant. Each party or sole patron keeping to their groups, no booming voices nor rowdy attitudes. A simple end of day for those here. 

This sort of crowd was difficult to gauge if they wanted a performance or not. To have their routine evening interrupted by a bard with songs to share or if they’d prefer to simply be left in peace until they retired. 

“If I do decide in favour, I wish not to be too full.” Jaskier explained further, “It’s never a good idea to play on a full stomach, it is much harder to expand the lungs and can make one sluggish, I find. None like a lacklustre bard that is for sure.” 

“Hmm.” Was all Geralt said in response, but returned to the finishing of his meal did he, thus Jaskier counted his reassurance as effective. 

“You’re welcome to have it.” Jaskier offered, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stomach anymore whether he played or not, and it was better if it didn’t go to waste… or back into the lot for the next day’s meal. 

His words garnered another look from Geralt. This one a touch longer than the first, narrowed a fraction and studious. 

“I can always grab some bread and cheese afterwards.” Jaskier added, “Not to mention this ale is hearty enough.” 

“Hm.” The seemingly noncommittal noise held a knowing lilt, eliciting a rather amused yet reproachful tone to the singular noise. 

Catching that edge, Jaskier scoffed, “Now if that’s a comment against my ability to hold my drink. I’ll have you know— ” 

“It’s not.” Geralt interrupted the rant ere it could take root. 

“Oh. All right then, good.” Jaskier conceded, not feeling up for pursuing the matter as he made himself out to be. 

Silence reigned then between them. The idle noises of an ambient tavern filled the space easily. Geralt finished the bit of bread he had whilst Jaskier sipped at his beer. Each surveying the tavern’s crowd at intervals when their attention wasn’t required to eat or drink. Their thoughts their own, but seemingly not on where their eyes were focused. 

“I’m going to check the notice board outside.” Geralt spoke up after a handful of minutes, his bowl and tankard empty. 

Jaksier’s attention slid back towards the other, knowing Geralt would be a while pursuing leads if there was a contract or seeking out an alderman about any work that may not have a notice out yet, “All right. I’ll likely be here, either wooing this crowd or getting booed back to our room.” 

The words were punctuated with a humour that all bards shared towards their yay and nay sayer performances. Some crowds were easy whilst others not so. If a bard was talented enough it could earn the approval and cheer of a stubborn gathering, but some were just not for turning. Whether it be jigs, ballads, or stories. Some simply would not do to have any entertainment. 

This was known amongst all creators, they could not please everyone. So it phased Jaskier little, especially after a few years in this profession. Even though it phased his coin purse at times. It was a humour he knew Geralt understood, more so than Jaskier could ever withstand, thus he wasn’t certain why Geralt had paused at his words. An indiscriminate halt to his motion of standing, a glance cast towards Jaskier under a slightly furrowed brow as the Witcher completed his action to stand. 

But not further words, be it instructions or those of sorting were shared. Geralt simply nodded to Jaskier and walked out. Leaving Jaksier to contemplate his tankard and bowl, still more full than depleted yet the bard couldn’t bring himself to eat anymore. His appetite had been entirely lost. 

An exhaustion that shadowed his steps all day, inkling of fatigue hadn’t slowed him any but certainly made itself known in the weight it added to his limbs and longing for a rest sooner than was normal. Yet he’d kept pace with Geralt and Roach all the way into this town, even managed to pluck at his lute at varying points throughout the day. Although the colder temperature, not yet winter weather but the threat of it lay within the cooler breeze and thickening of clouds over the mountains, had kept his fingers hidden by gloves for the majority of the day and had him breathing through his mouth as little as possible. Not wanting to risk his vocal cords with a cold so soon. 

Thus it’d be fairly easy to conceal his lack of energy this day, and the few before it. For that Jaskier was grateful, as it didn’t cause any undue attention. Usually one to bask in the centre of it he was, reveal in it even, but not so when his and Geralt’s paths were set to diverge ere winter dug its heels in. The Witcher having told him of his plans to winter at Kaer Morhen a handful of weeks back, and in knowing there was no place for a bard at a Witcher’s keep, Jaskier had shared his plans of travelling back to Oxenfurt to spend the winter months. 

Only a few weeks to go judging by the weather’s turning. Thus a brief spell of overtiredness ( likely just due to the change of weather and extended walking out in it ) was naught to fret over, especially when it would likely end with Geralt departing earlier than planned. It was nothing a night’s rest in a warm bed wouldn’t cure. 

Meaning it was settled. No performance tonight, he would turn in early to ensure he was well rested so that he could face whatever tomorrow held. Whether it was a contract Geralt had been able to secure tonight or onwards to the next village in search of some final work until time called them to their respective respites for the winter. 

With his mind settled, Jaskier stood from the table. Collecting his belongings and taking a final drink from his ale, he made his way towards the staircase that led up towards the hall of rooms rented out to travelling guests. 

Climbing the wooden, creaky stairs up to the first floor where the rooms were located, Jaskier felt the expense each step cost his fatigued frame. It seemed finally admitting to himself that he didn’t feel up to par had made him all the more aware of the malaise that stretched through every joint and fibre of his being, leaving him in greater want to merley sleep. 

Passing through the threshold to Geralt and his shared room, Jaskier took a swift glance about to orientate himself. A single bed ( one big enough for two if needed ) set against the far wall, a nightstand sat beside it, a table off to the right held a washbasin and water jug, a single wooden chair was pushed up against the table, and finally an in-room fireplace lay just beyond those furnishing. 

The in-room hearth was a right luxury that most inns further north were known for. Jaskier hadn’t expected one to be present here, they were still rather south of Kaedwen along the border between Aedirn and Tameria. Although it wasn’t an unpleasant accommodation, rather nice seeing as the weather was turning and there was only one blanket in the room. He’d rather not have to supplement with his bedroll’s unwashed blanket when he could have fresh sheets to sleep in. 

Thus brought forth a new debate for the bard, to simply shed his outerwear for sleepwear and get into bed or forestall sleep to light the fire. A low groan slipped past Jaskier’s lips, wishing Geralt had hung around a little longer if only to cast _igni_ so the fire would essentially light itself. Least the Witcher had finally got over the notion Jaskier would find it too strange or unsightly if Geralt used his signs in front of him, no more waiting for a flint to strike a fire outdoors. Just instant warmth. 

Ah what he wouldn’t do for that now. Standing still had let the chill of the waning day to seep through his clothes, it having been chased away by exercise of walking and the heartily brewed beer from downstairs. Now he shivered minutely and thus his choice was rather made for him again. He’d have to light a fire or he’d never been warm… well not until Geralt came back and lit it himself that was, but Jaskier wasn’t certain when that would be so he’d rather not suffer until then. 

Spying the flint and strike resting on the thin strip of mantle above the hearth, Jaskier was quick to set his pack and lute aside to take the items up. 

“Fuck.” The bard grumbled after the fifth strike yielded nothing but a show of sparks that didn’t catch the kindling enough to light. 

It seemed he had been pampered as of late with Geralt starting all the fires. He was out of practise certainly. Or perhaps it was his inability to keep a steady hold upon the small flint stone, it’s size and chipped surface told of a long time use and was unlikely to be replaced until it was crumbling or impossible to keep hold of and strike. For all this inn’s luxuries there were nearly as many drawbacks. 

But it took no more than another sharp clack between the flint and strike before the sparks caught kindling. The orange glow was fed by a soft breath from Jaskier and the dryness of the tinder, it was swiftly catching alight. Soon the burning embers turned into true flames that eagerly lapped and ate at the wood. 

“There.” Jaskier murmured to himself, standing to set the flint and strike back where they belonged, “Should be cosy in no time.” 

Flicking his fingers lightly against his palms to ease the slight ache that cold air brought to them, they’d warm with a bit of movement and once the fire’s heat spread about the room. His grip on the flint to get it to strike must have been awkward. 

Sighing lightly, he set about pulling his nightclothes from his pack. Even with a fire burning away in the hearth, it’d be foolish to sleep in nothing but his braies. Slipping out of his doublet, boots, and trousers, he left his socks be. Folding his outer garments to rest atop his pack that now sat on the ground below the table. He shed his shirt to add to the neat pile. 

A shiver ran through his frame at being divested of the warm clothing, the air not quite yet warm enough from the fire to match. Another sprung through his limbs when he reached out to grasp the painted ceramic of the water jug, oddly decorative as it was functional. The lacquered clay was as icy to the touch as the water within, judging from the droplets of water that splashed onto his hand when he poured it into the basin. 

Apprehension for the cold he knew would greet his hands and face if he wished to freshen up caused him to hesitate a moment, but in the end, the want to be cleaner had him forging forward. Grimacing, Jaskier dipped his hands into the water, indeed it was frigid, to wash his hands and bring up a generous bit to wash his face with. 

A shudder wracked through his core at the actions, but he was quick to scoop up the small towel next to the basin to wipe the excess water before it could run riverlets down his neck and chest. In the very least it was refreshing. He certainly felt cleaner, even though it wasn’t a hot bath that he craved. 

Finished with his base ablutions, he grabbed and pulled on a soft linen nightshirt. It stayed far cleaner and fresher than a majority of his clothes when travelling, usually staying at the bottom of his pack until they could reach an inn that allowed him to sleep in something else aside from the clothes he’d worn all day. 

Too tired to do much else, Jaskier walked over to the bed and pulled back the blanket. Casting an eye about for any obvious uncleanliness, the sheets certainly smelt fresh of soap and held no signs of bugs nor spots. Deciding it was fit enough to sleep on, he crawled under the blanket. It was a touch rough, most likely from multiple washes and use throughout the years, but the straw mattress and pillow were softer than any bedroll thus he couldn’t complain overly much. 

A quiet sigh of contentment left his lips, letting his body relax and give into his exhaustion, Jaskier was asleep within moments. 

… & …

Returning to the inn just after dusk, Geralt visited Roach in the stables attached to the building. He wanted to ensure she was being treated well, and indeed she was grazing on a fresh flake of hay when he came to her stall. She raised her head to look towards him, but returned to her feed after a moment’s glance. Rather content in her current lodgings.

Geralt reached out to pat her neck, whilst he glanced towards her water. It was full, a few stray bits of grass floated along the top, but it both looked and smelt fresh. No scum nor stagnancy tainted it. Her bedding too looked freshly mucked and laid down, minus the markings of a healthy horse. Even her tack remained nicely placed upon the rack and hook from when he settled her in earlier. 

“Goodnight Roach.” Geralt said, rubbing his hand along her neck twice more before he stepped away, slinging his saddlebags and pack more so up onto his shoulders. 

All was well with his horse then, yet a tiny prickling of unease remained. One that intrinsically told him that if Roach was fine, then he must be Jaskier causing it. The bard had seemed off today, in more ways than one, but the most obvious tell had been when Jaskier hadn’t tried to accompany him to the notice board or the alderman’s house. 

Usually so invested in every manner that came to Geralt’s hunts, from picking up the flyers to investigating to the actual hunt; the bard wanted to be a part of it all. Yet this day, Jaskier had chosen to remain at the tavern. 

Not that Geralt minded that, he would prefer the bard to stay behind a majority of the time given the danger and the other’s perchance for inopportune exposition, but it was distinctly out-of-character for his travelling companion. And when people behaved differently than their norm, it was more often than not meant something was wrong. 

He just wasn’t sure what it was. Was Jaskier finally tiring of adventures and living the life of a pseudo-witcher? Did the bard not want to return to travelling with him come spring after they parted for the winter? Was Jaskier trying to place distance or summon the courage to tell him this? 

Geralt wouldn’t blame Jaskier for such thoughts. Although he had begun to believe the bard was truly stuck to his side, naught could sway Jaskier’s postive view of Witchers nor could any danger or ill will separate him from Geralt on the path. 

Nothing thus far, a small voice in the back of his mind sprung forth to remind him. 

But something would, whether a thing or time itself, Jaskier wouldn’t remain. This Geralt knew, yet tried valiantly not to dwell on. However the bard made it forever difficult not to do with his constant toeing the line between recklessness and foolhardiness; either when on the path or in forbidden bedchambers back in society. Jaskier seemed to court danger nearly as much as he did so of willing persons. It’d catch up to him one day, that much was certain. 

A soundless sigh fell from the Witcher’s lips, thinking on such matters didn’t help much when those involved weren’t looking to add to their self-preservation, and no matter how many times Geralt had told or ordered or fought and warned against it, Jaskier persisted. Thus being there for the fallout or to intervene seemed the only way, yet Geralt knew he couldn’t always be there. It was inevitable something would occur that Geralt could do nothing to stop or fix. 

Low was the growl that rumbled in Geralt’s chest, the creaky stairs up to the inn hid the sound well. The sound voiced in frustration, for the bard was an adult, whatever befell him he would have to weather the consequences and take care of himself as anyone would. Yet an inkling of fondness he held for the other prickled at his conscience whenever he tried to think that way. Knowing that if the bard asked it of him or needed it, he’d be there. 

The warmth inside the inn’s main room stirred him from his thoughts, the fire burnt hot in the stone hearth at the room’s centre. He could hear the remnants of the stew served earlier bubbled and sizzled at the bottom of the giant cast-iron pot, the air subtlety smelling of overcooked meat along with the woodsmoke from the pit and the mingling smells of individuals. Beer, sweat, meat, and smoke all crammed together in a single overwarm space was a familiar one when visiting taverns or inns, but it was no less unwelcome after spending so much time in the outdoor air.

Stealing his features from wrinkling his nose, he traversed the common room headed towards the stairs, garnering a few sideways glances and some open stares from the sparse patrons that hadn’t disbursed yet for the night. He noted Jaskier wasn’t among the tables, nor was he preparing for a set in any of the corners. 

A frown creased the grim set to his lips; it was still early, thus Jaskier indeed had had to retreat to their room after an unappreciated performance or he hadn’t played at all. 

Frown deepening, Geralt gave the room one last glance over before ascending the stairs up to the rooms. Shifting his saddlebags on his shoulder a fraction, the Witcher’s ears involuntarily perked for any sullen notes of Jaskier’s lute or softly sung lyrics, or grumbled ramblings if the audience had indeed ‘booed him from his stage’, from the room Geralt knew was theirs. There was nothing. 

Brow furrowing, Geralt entered their room. Movements a touch hurried, but ever silent, aside from the stray creak or groan from the wooden floorboards. A quick yet efficient survey of the room found him faced with nothing nefarious nor dangerous. The fire had burnt down a bit, neat and organised were the bard’s personal effects by the table ( the beloved lute still in its case and leaning against the wall ) and the bard in question was nestled underneath the sole wool blanket on the bed. 

Although it had Geralt marginally easing, it didn’t dispel entirely with the nagging worry that pricked at the back of his mind. For Jaskier was asleep ere the sunset and he could beg details from Geralt on whatever hunt there may be in this town. 

Setting his own bags down, Geralt stepped closer to the bed. The bard lay curled on his side, blanket wrapped around his frame and almost snuggled in to. Geralt noted the deep, rhythmic rise and fall of the bard’s chest. Tiny wisps of noise following each inhale that were too soft to be truly called snores, a sign Geralt had come to know meant the other was truly and deeply asleep. 

Nothing was amiss, except for a subtle sour tint about the bard’s usual honey and chamomile scent. It was a taint that was unfortunately familiar to the Witcher, it was one that infected a humans’ scent at one point or another throughout their lives. It was the acetous scent of malaise. 

His bard was ill. 

“Fuck.”

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** I apologise that there’s no true sickfic elements in this first chapter , but I felt the set up for it was necessary. A lot more happens in this than just Jaskier falling ill ... 
> 
> If you’d be so kind as to tap the kudos button or leave a comment , I would greatly appreciate it ! Whether it’s just an ‘ _i liked it’_ or ‘ _i didn’t like it_ ’ or reaction or whatnot , I would love to hear it ! But if you’re just here to read then that’s all right as well , I hope you enjoyed reading this thus far !
> 
> && for those waiting updates on my other Witcher fics ; they are coming , I am just at a point where I have too many ideas & not enough time to write , so I’m a bit all over the place with my WIPs , but they are being worked on !


	2. Not Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** For those who may be affected by it , there’s a _**vomit warning**_ for this chapter. It’s not too graphic I don’t think because it’s told from Geralt’s perspective not Jaskier’s , but still just wanted to let it be known ! I simply wanted Jaskier to fall ill enough for it to be concerning & potentially dangerous if he wasn’t cared for through it by Geralt , but as well something that was recoverable from & wouldn’t take him months to do so. So yes , just know the warnings before reading on ! I don’t want anyone triggered or surprised , etc.  
> As well , I’d love to say a wholehearted thanks to Hum My Name (My_Kind_of_Crazy) , Guest , BlaiddGwyn (dragonLeighs) , More_familiar_wilds , Veraven , & GeraskierForever for commenting on the last chapter ! All your kind words & desires to read more of my story filled my heart with such joy & it made my entire week all the brighter ! Truly thank you for taking the time to leave those comments !  
> I have no beta thus all mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _The Witcher_. Neither am I associated with Andrzej Sapkowski , Netflix , the publication companies of the books , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes.

" There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends. " **\- Slyvia Plath ; _The Bell Jar_**

A slight hitch to the bard’s breathing alerted Geralt, drawing him from the shallow depths of mediation to present consciousness. Wake within a moment of hearing the slight alteration to the set pattern, Geralt’s eyes were open and needed the barest of a second to adjust to the dimly lit room. The firelight flickered in motion and movements of the flames, casting wobbling and inconsistent shadows about the darkened room. 

Night had fallen hours ago and dawn was still several more away from cresting. Moonlight covered by the thick, low hanging clouds that’d plagued the daylight with threat of snowfall. They were making good on their ominous promise now. The icy frost scent of snow pressed in through the minuscule cracks between the wooden walls and along the seams of the window. Wind whipped against it in intermittent intervals, high whistling then tapering off to harsh whispers of breeze. 

Less so violent a storm than true winter would bring despite its racket and darken cast. The snowfall would be light ( uncombersome for folk so used to the North’s colder months ) but the frost would be heavy and the wind wild. 

Yet those noises came as a second register to the Witcher. Taking them in intrinsically, situational awareness both bred through mutagens and taught by masters had it done near automatically, then filtering them out when they proved neither threat nor worthy of more than an unconscious mental note. For his sole attention was upon the bard, who shifted on the bed, movements seeming born of discomfort or restlessness. His sleep was troubled. 

Geralt remained in his meditative pose on his knees before the hearth, unwilling to wake Jaskier if he would settle after a few moments. Sleep was the best thing for anyone suffering sickness, medicines could come later once the other was awake and could express what was ailing him. 

Already Geralt had poured over his supply of herbs, having several one hand for potion brewing as well as for medicinal uses. Though he knew little of the details of all human illnesses, symptoms could be treated even if he couldn’t do so for the ailment as a whole.

Verbena, usually he used it for bruises or burns, but too could be used for sore throats and upper respiratory infections. Although Jaskier’s breathing didn’t seem compromised any, Geralt was glad to have it on hand in case it were to. Unless they held a malevolent taint, illness usually began slowly and grew worse over time. Thus the Witcher hoped they would catch anything that may prove life threatening early enough to hinder its progression. 

Willow bark was one he made a note of keeping on hand, even though it held no use for brewing potions. An herb that worked well against pain and inflammation without containing any of the disorienting and drowsy effects that theriac held. 

Celandine was something he kept with him in abundance due to its myriad of uses when it came to potions. It too held uses that’d ease most stomach discomforts when combined with a bit of peppermint leaf and chamomile or calendula. All of which Geralt had as well, however in a smaller amount than he would have liked. The room in his herb pouches were usually taken up by ones he most often used or rare ones he obtained and needed to keep preserved. 

Yarrow when combined with a bit of honeysuckle, peppermint leaf, and elderflower would help ease a fever, induce sweating and ease any strain on the lungs. The three formers he had enough to brew a tea for, but only a single dose and his supply of elderflower was nonexistent at present. He’d had to seek out a healer if it was needed. 

There was always a chance that Jaskier carried a few items that may help when times of sickness befell him, Geralt knew the bard kept stuff to help with his throat after singing and for his teeth to keep them pristine ( for reasons Geralt hadn’t listened to but could guess ) , but for something worse, the Witcher didn’t know. And he wasn’t about to go rooting through his travelling companion’s bags unless an emergency called for it. 

Thus counting his own coin had come next. In case there was a need to seek out a healer and for any subsequent medicines that would be required. He had enough, but it’d be the last of it. The contract he’d picked up late yesterday would bring in more, but it would barely cover a few extra days room and meals to allow Jaskier to rest and recuperate here. 

Winter was always a slow time for working as a Witcher, for any work truly. The freezing temperatures and wicked storms that left traversing from one place to the next, let alone travelling great distances, more difficult than it was worth. Something that most men and monsters seemed to have in common. Usually sticking close to home and hardly venturing further than needed. Sure, hunger could drive monsters further than wanted, but the frigid elements would make quick work of them. Leaving little work left for Witchers seeking it. 

Heavy was the sigh he had vented then. Burdened with worry and the beginnings of helplessness the soft gush of air had been. It was quickly dispelled with however, for he knew not yet what ailed the bard. It could be as simple as a cold for all he could smell at present. Although the acerbic scent had only grown in the last few hours, not waned nor faded, which was what beheld the Witcher to worry. Unrelenting in its presence even as Geralt tried to negate it to the back of his mind or placate it by preparing for the worst.

A low moan came from the bed. Though it wasn’t unheard of for Jaskier to do so in his sleep, usually due to a certain breed of carnal dream, this particular groan sounded decidedly discomfited and pained. It was this that finally drew Geralt up from his knees. He stepped towards the bed, footfalls light and soundless despite having his boots still on. 

Jaskier lay curled on his side once more, his arms coiled with the folds of the blanket and his features were pinched even in his sleep. The bard’s usually neatly styled hair lay in disarray, it’s strands damp with sweat, either plastered to his forehead or fanned out along the flat pillow. Further signs of unrested sleep than the simple movements or overheating that could occur when asleep. 

Whatever was plaguing the bard was worsening, digging its talons of sickness deeper as the other slept. Jaskier would likely grow worse ere he began to recover, this Geralt knew. It wasn’t as if he had thought nor dared to hope a single night’s rest indoors would cure Jaskier before the symptoms took hold and presented themselves. It simply wasn’t possible, even had it been fate was a cruel companion to Witchers and those who idled in their company. 

A low whine pitched in the back of Jaksier’s throat, the sound distressed and tender, had Geralt reaching out a hand to gingerly place it against Jaskier's shoulder. Blinking at the heat he could feel seeping through the fine linen shirt the bard was wearing, the fever was higher than Geralt had anticipated for how much time had passed. 

_Fuck._

Perhaps he had misjudged letting Jaskier sleep over waking him to take some herbs. Sleep was pivotal to a healing body, but not if a fever was left to burn unattended. The only consolation Geralt felt towards his choice was that the foetid scent of fever wasn’t prominent nor thick despite standing so very close to the ailing bard now, thus the fever hadn’t been burning long. 

Geralt’s touch was gentle but firm, he gave the bard’s shoulder a small shake, and his voice pitched in much the same manner as his grip ( although his voice still held the gruff rasp that no amount of trying could dispel with ), he called, “Jaskier. Wake up. Jaskier.” 

In spite of the mildness to Geralt’s handling, Jaskier gasped and curled forward tighter. Geralt redacted his hand swiftly at the reaction whilst Jaskier’s features more so contorted in the throes of whatever was ailing him became much apparent when waking. 

Geralt couldn’t help the grimace that graced his own face at catching the miasmic scent of pain that came from the bard, it soured his usual redolence. It was worse than the sickly, fevered odour that clung to the bard and the air about his person. He had to stamp down on the desire to growl in self-reflected ire over his helplessness and ineptitude here. 

“Jaskier.” Voice was still pitched softly, in difference to Jaskier’s state, but persistent and pressing was his tone. He needed the other to wake fully. 

The bard’s respirations had increased, short and shallow breaths that hitched on every other inhale, but he shifted to lift his head a slight and squint up at Geralt, “Shit. Geralt, wha—what’s...” 

“Quiet a moment and listen.” It was the politest way Geralt has shushed anyone in a long while, but the hazy cast to Jaskier’s eyes told the Witcher he wasn’t altogether aware nor present yet, “You’re sick. I know of the fever, but I need to know what other symptoms you have.” 

Jaskier blinked a few times, a hand of his came up then to clumsily press the heel of it against his far eye whilst he turned the side of his face into the pillow, “Mmph, feel like hell of a hangover.” 

Geralt nodded, the description was more helpful than he thought he would be able to pull from the bard, “So headache, dizziness, stomach bothering you?” 

“Mhm.” Was all Jaskier could manage in a way of a confirmation to Geralt’s query. 

“Hm.” Geralt intoned in return, turning away from the other to walk back towards the fireplace and where his pack lay to begin rifling through it. 

Had Jaskier felt even a smidge better he might have laughed at how far their ability to communicate through short grunts and monosyllabic sounds had evolved since they’d first met. 

Geralt set aside the herbs he would need to brew tea with. Their sachets created a short line up by the light of the fire whilst he took up the water jug and one of their small cooking pots. Pouring a significant amount of water into it, measured only by sight but Geralt had become a practised hand at it due to brewing potions and decoctions ( as well as his own remedies when needed ) for so many years. 

Shuffling from behind had him glancing over his shoulder to see Jaskier had burrowed underneath the wool blanket, only glimpses of dark hair could be seen now. 

“Don’t fall back asleep.” Geralt warned, angling himself to better look at the bard, although he doubted much aside from his silhouette backlit from the fireplace could be seen by the other, “And take that blanket off your face before you make your fever worse.” 

There was a hoarse sounding huff, then the blanket was pulled down by an unseen hand beneath it. Only so much to reveal the other’s colourless features, pinched and waxen in illness they were. Slivers of glassy blue belonging to the colour of Jaksier eyes could be seen beneath narrowed lids. Least the bard was awake and coherent enough to listen. 

Turning back, Geralt picked up the pot to set it in the fire. Brushing it up right against the slight wood and setting it within the coals to ensure it heated well and fast. The heat of the fire bothered his fingers little, but still he was mindful of what and where he touched. 

Snatching the pouches of herbs, Geralt sorted dosages. Movements sure and practised, he measured out the content by sight. Knowing Jaskier would need a lesser dose than a Witcher would, yet he didn’t want to make the tea too weak leats it prove ineffective against the bard’s symptoms. Some quick arethemtic based upon Jaskier’s size and known potency of the herbs he had had Geralt with a rough but better estimation on how much to use than mere guessing would have him at. 

A swift, scrambled clatter of noise sounded from behind him; a hitched breath that bordered upon a gasp, a shuffling of bedclothes that told of frantic, hurried movements, and scraping of ceramic on wood. Immediately Geralt had turned, frame instinctively tensing and readying for the worst ere he knew precisely what was wrong, to witness Jaskier vomit into the chamberpot the other had thankfully managed to grab in time. 

Sighing lightly, Geralt turned away, ignoring the sounds of heaving behind him for the moment, to grab his mug from his own bag and delicately dip it into the warming water from the pot in the fire. Only a few swallows worth since Jaskier likely wouldn’t be up for consuming much at the moment. Warm water wouldn’t be exactly refreshing, but it’d rinse the taste of bile from a tongue just as cold would and besides it was more sanitary for Jaskier at present than well water. 

“Fuck. Sorry.” Jaskier rasped, breathing shallowly yet heavy, at noticing Geralt coming up next to the bed. Had his cheeks not been flush already with fever, they’d likely be now with embarrassment. 

“Are you finished?” Geralt asked, tone neither annoyed nor angry aside from his his usual gruffness that was tempered none except in volume, but he caught the slight wince Jaskier gave. 

At Jaskier nodding in affirmation, Geralt waited for the bard to sit back. The other’s movements were slow and diliberate, indicating pain or further nausea. Geralt noted this with a deepening frown. 

He held out the mug with water, waiting patiently for Jaskier to gather his breath ere taking the proffered drink, “It’s water. Rinse and take slow sips.” 

The bard did as told, taking a drink to swish it in his mouth a moment before leaning back over to spit it into the soiled chamberpot. A gag followed the action, his body seeming to act without his volition nor any true need behind it since nothing followed it. Still Jaskier’s teeth clacked with the force he ground his jaw together and the hand of his not holding the mug came up to press against his lips. 

“I’m fine.” Jaskier said after a few moments, leaning back once more to take a few minuscule sips of the water. 

Geralt’s brow rose incredulously at Jaskier’s claim to health, to which the bard attempted to roll his eyes at. Seeming to rethink the gesture with a wince, no doubt it stirred up the vertigo or jarred the headache he had. 

“Keep drinking that if you can.” The Witcher said, bending down to mindfully lift the sullied chamberpot and make his way towards the room’s door.

A sudden shift from Jaskier, had Geralt pausing, fearing he’d been too preemptive in removing the only resepicale appropriate to puke in, but Jaskier had simply sat up more and made to swing his leg over the side of the bed. 

“Ah, shit. You don’t have to do that.” His words followed his actions, seeming readying to handle it himself, despite his features having gone pallid aside from splashes of scarlet along his cheeks, “I’ll take it.” 

Geralt shook his head, “Stay and drink.” 

The Witcher left ere Jaskier could voice any further protest or even hope to press the issue by following him. The room swam and danced a bit befroe his eyes, the lightheadedness would have made walking difficult if not impossible. Hi stomach and head wouldn’t likely enjoy his attempt to do so either, thus the bard had to silently agree he was better off sitting and sipping at the luke-warm water he’d been given. 

It wasn’t a handful of minutes gone that Geralt came back. A light dusting of snow was present along the edges of his boots, the spanse of his shoulders, and blended into the white of his hair. His steps were quiet and movements soundless when he opened then shut the door to their room. Latching it instinctively ere stepping away into the room to place the now empty and rinsed chamberpot beside the bed. Jaskier noticed it was placed where he had it when he’d gotten sick instead of being returned to its proper place underneath the bed. 

A silent yet obvious gesture of _‘just in case’_ that Jaskier had ever seen. But he made no comment on it, for he was grateful. It was becoming more evident as the minutes ticked by that it may prove useful yet again at some point. Swallowing thickly, Jaskier tried not to focus on the churning within his belly and periodically sip at the little amount of water left in the mug he held. 

Returning to crouch by the hearth, Geralt was quick to check over the herbs once more ere adding them to the now steaming pot. Celandine and chamomile first, it’d be the bulk of the tea, with some peppermint leaf and a sprinkling of dried yarrow and honeysuckle. Once the sun rose he’d have to seek out a healer, if this village even had one, or market to purchase ginger, elderflower, and more peppermint leaf. 

Pausing, Geralt considered for a moment ere he grabbed another pouch that crinkled when picked up to add some sweet salt from within it to the boiling mixture. Hardly shaving off a pinch with his thumb, it crumbled easily away under his touch, as the sweetness wouldn’t help Jaskier’s stomach any, but would hopefully make the brew a touch more palatable than merely tasting of earth and bitter leaves. The bard didn’t have a Witcher tolerance for stomaching foul concoctions. 

Not that Geralt found tea to be foul, it was much preferable to potions and elixirs. But the bard had a penchant for sweetness of honey and fruit, thus he hoped the sweet salt would appease that part of Jaskier enough to get his body to keep the tisane down. Especially after that vomiting episode, his stomach would be less likely to accept anything at present. 

Brushing off his hands by quickly gliding them across the fingers of his other hand, a few passes along each other ensured any stray pieces of dry leaves or flowers didn’t linger, Geralt then stood to come back towards the bed. 

“The mug.” Geralt said, gesturing for the mug Jaskier still held to which the bard handed over without comment. 

The other’s gaze followed Geralt as he went back towards the fire and dipped the mug into the bubbling pot to scoop up some of the liquid into it. Wiping the dripping excess off with the towel Jaskier had used early to dry off with, then turn to bring it back over to Jaskier. 

“Here.” Geralt said, holding the horn crafted mug out for the bard to take, “It’s hot.” 

“This isn’t firewater and pepper, is it?” Jaskier asked, tentatively taking the mug in both of his hands. The warmth was gladly welcomed but he was almost afraid to bring it any closer should it contents prove to be revolting as most medicines were. 

“Is that what you normally take?” Askance was the look Geralt shot Jaskier at hearing that. Why that was a standard remedy for anything other than congestion, Geralt didn’t know. 

“Goddesses no. I hate it.” Jaskier corrected, disgust plain in his tone and upon his pale features. 

“Hm.” Geralt never understood the reasoning for certain medicines of men either, that particular one always struck him odd, he shook his head, “It’s a tisane. One brewed with celandine, chamomile, peppermint, yarrow, and honeysuckle. Any of those disagree with you?” 

“Not usually, no.” Jaskier answered, finally bringing the mug closer to give it a tiny sniff, “But no promises with how my stomach feels right now.” 

“Take it slow.” Geralt advised, looking towards the other’s stacked belongings then back to him, “Where is your waterskin?” 

Jaskier grimaced at the sip he just took from the bitter brew, but swallowed it and cleared his throat to answer, “It’s in my bag. You can look for it, if you need it. Just mind, I have a flask of jasmine oil in there.” 

At that the Witcher visibly wrinkled his nose, an expression that softened his features in a way Jaskier had yet to ever observe. It was a true treat and one that he wished he was well enough to truly appreciate. The fever and miserable state of his person muddled his usually expansive vocabulary and ingenuity when it came to word craft. 

Thus he merely scoffed lightly, a hand coming to rest on his stomach when the action jarred it a touch too much, but he didn’t hesitate to say, “Monster guts, corpses— hm, actually let’s not list anymore, but none of those deter you any, but jasmine oil is your undoing.” 

Geralt offered a grunt growl at the bard’s jerring, settling himself in a crouch to dig through Jaskier’s pack, “It’s too sweet. Overpowering and doesn’t fade after a bath.” 

“Very true. That’s why it’s so useful and expensive.” Jaskier reminded unhelpfully, although he didn’t prize his small flask of jasmine oil highly without reason, it was near entirely waterproof ( or sweat proof actually ) a necessity when physical activity was undertaken when wearing it, “But it’s corked tight. I promise.” 

Still the Witcher was cautious, near timid, when shifting through Jaskier’s pack, the many perfumed substances the bard carried were strong and overwhelming to Geralt’s enhanced senses. Whether worn outrightly on his skin and clothes during the days, the oppressive scents clinging to flesh and cloth at night, or being added to water in baths or jugs for rinsing. Even when bottled the odours seeped through their toppers and permeated the air whenever the bard flipped open his pack. 

Although he hadn’t noticed any when he had undone the bag’s latches and in hindsight he hadn’t much noted any of them after the first few weeks of them travelling together had passed. A moments more search had Geralt finding out why that was, those little bottles containing various fragrances and colognes had all been capped by wax. The process calling for the corked bottle to be dipped top first into wax several times to create a proper seal. It is normally used for wines... or liquids that would be travelling great distances. 

Whether it was done to preserve his precious parfums when on the road or in difference to Geralt’s sensitive nose, the Witcher wasn’t certain. Either way it was a welcome change. 

“Drink your tea.” Geralt absently said, feeling the bard’s eyes on him and the childish huff he heard in answer ere the noise that accompanied drinking reached his ears next. The Witcher had to smother a smile even though he was angled away from Jaskier so it wouldn’t be seen had he allowed it to fruition. 

Finding the sought after waterskin as well as Jaskier pewter cup, Geralt repacked the items he’d removed or shifted round. It wasn’t exactly as he had found it but that could be fixed later. He stood with the items retrieved in hand, setting the cup on the table whilst he uncapped the waterskin and tipped it to pour some of its contents out into the cup. 

Jaskier’s waterskin only ever held boiled water, since well or spring water couldn’t always be trusted to be free of toxins and taints even when clear and fresh smelling. Thus it wasn’t something the bard, nor the Witcher, was willing to risk. It helped them in this situation now as well, since boiled water was recommended for those who were ailing anyway. 

“This is water.” Geralt told the bard as he came over to set it on the small night table beside the bed, “You should drink it as well as the tisane.” 

“Ugh.” Jaskier intoned after swallowing another sip of the tea, having to swallow heavily after it, “I don’t think…” 

Geralt watched Jaskier shake his head in negative, understanding the bard wasn’t up for consuming much, the nausea was plain upon his face, “Take it slow, but keep at it. Dehydration will make you feel worse.” 

“Right.” Was all Jaskier could respond with, eyeing the mug with an increasing level of distaste. 

Soundless was the sigh that fell from Geralt’s lips. Realising that it was unlikely that he could convince the bard to drink anymore, probably for the better as forcing too much on an upset belly too quickly wouldn’t end well for the other. Thus Geralt motioned the mug. 

“Think you can sleep some?” Geralt asked, taking the partially empty mug from Jaskier and setting it beside the water cup. 

Jaskier sighed softly, the quiet breath sounding brittle and exhausted, as he slid further down on the bed, “No, but I think I’ll just lay here and hope I do. Do you want half the bed?” 

“No. I’ll meditate.” Geralt was already situating himself on his knees back near the fireplace after visually checking the simmering pot once more, he glanced towards Jaskier empathetically, “Rest.” 

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** There’s the second bit ! This is turning into a rather slow developing sickfic. Hopefully that’s liked and okay because there’s still a lot more hurt / comfort to come , but I set my word count at 3k-ish words per chapter & this one was pushing it so I just had to post it. The next chapter will arrive very soon though ! 
> 
> If you’d be so kind as to tap the kudos button or leave a comment , I would greatly appreciate it ! Whether it’s just an ‘i liked it’ or ‘i didn’t like it’ or a reaction or thought or whatnot , I would love to hear it ! But if you’re just here to read then that’s all right as well , I hope you enjoyed it ! 
> 
> **Note :** Theriac was a widely used opium based medicine originally used to treat poisons / snakebites , but was later used in general for a myriad of ailments. A “cure-all” it had become. But it’s recipe has been changed & altered throughout the decades , not one doctor had the same usually , but the primary ingredient that was never lost to the recipe was opium. Sometimes it had valerian which works like a sedative , & lavender for calming effects , so combine that with opium for a painkiller & no wonder it was so widely prescribed. 
> 
> **Note :** Jasmine scent was once thought to be an aphrodisiac. Know it’s both expensive and a unique find as well. Probably a Toussaint import by The Witcher universe dynamics. Mostly I envision him wearing it only when he goes to play at banquets / courts since it’d be very popular with nobility / royalty. But since Geralt hates the scent he doesn’t wear it often or in excess, that’s one of the reasons he smells of chamomile and honey because those scents are both sweet yet not overpowering to Geralt.


	3. Not Improving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** This chapter is officially the longest in this story , I broke my 3k per chapter rule :| I couldn’t help it.
> 
> Again this is another indelicate chapter so _**vomit warning**_ & just general warning for more of Jaskier being rather severely ill , but again I don’t think it’s too graphic , but unlike the last chapter a majority of this one is from Jaskier’s perspective since the last whole chapter was from Geralt’s. Thus if this needs more warnings or tags let me know & I’ll add them !
> 
> My utmost thanks to More_familar_wilds , BlaiddGwyn (dragonLeighs) , Guest 2 : Electric Boogaloo , Veraven , ReinaQueenofDemons , sheep_in_a_spaceship , & orangewaffuru for commenting on the last chapter ! As well to everyone who has left kudos ! All your support , kind words , & feedback have made me smile to no end ! Thank you !
> 
> I have no beta thus all mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _The Witcher_. Neither am I associated with Andrzej Sapkowski , Netflix , the publication companies of the books , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes.

“ The friend that holds your hand and says the wrong thing is made fo dearer stuff than the one who stays away. ” **— Barbara Kingslover**

Sleep was elusive to Jaskier. Distant it remained, despite his desire for the oblivion it would bring. Far off and beyond reach passed the lingering nausea that swelled and ebbed in varying intervals. Chills had set a steady rhythm to wrack through his frame in accompaniment to the queasiness, the blanket doing little to help warm the cold from his bones. Although he knew it had to be a fever that was diluting his body into thinking it was chilled, that didn’t ease the absolute misery that came with feeling freezing when ill. 

Whatever had been in Geralt’s tea hadn’t yet begun to work. The bard had hoped, in vain he knew, that it’d do quick work against his symptoms. Perhaps some Witcher secret long forgotten by the flightiness of humans, or a rare potent herb that Geralt could have had stashed, but it was plain medicine. Granted, Jaskier trusted Geralt more than any other healer, or court physician at that. Least when it came to herbs and their uses. 

It merely needed time to integrate into his s system before it began to help. Yet his body only seemed to want to revolt against it. His head ached fiercely, seeming more so than before, whilst his stomach churned and cramped unhappily. 

In hopes to ease the discomfort, Jaskier slowly turned onto his side and curled his knees towards his chest. He shuddered when the blanket shifted, but he was quick to pull it back up and tuck it close again. Settling once more, despite it alleviating his pain marginally, Jaskier sighed lightly. The sound was a mixture of discontentment and resignation. 

Of all the time to fall ill. It had to be when they were on a schedule crunch with Winter fast approaching and with the Witcher who never made it verbally apparent that waiting for Jaskier was any sort of priority. 

In thinking of the Witcher, Jaskier glanced towards the fireplace. Twain amber hues were focused upon the bard, who’s own eyes widened a bit at being stared at. Geralt had been peacefully meditating just moments before… Oh. His shifting in bed must have drawn Geralt from his meditative state. 

“All right?” Geralt asked ere Jaskier could say anything placating. 

“Fine.” Jaskier answered, hating that his oh-so-uncharactisc one word response had Geralt’s brow furrowing, “Feels better this way.” 

The Witcher seemed to take that as truth, which it was even if it was only a touch better than laying on his back, after staring for a moment more. Jaskier watched through half-lidded eyes as Geralt closed his own and settled back into mediation. Resting his knees with his hands laying against his thighs, eyes closed with his head bent downwards slightly and back casually straight. 

It was a pose Jaskier had seen a few times now. And it didn’t seem any more comfortable a position to mediate in than it had before. He always thought sitting down fully would offer more comfort, but that posture probably had to do with ensuring one kept moderately alert even when meditating. It looked murder on the knees though. But with Witcher abilities it had to be inconsequential, Jaskier mused. 

Geralt’s form was silhouetted by the fire behind him, the fluttering nature that belonged to a well-fuelled fire’s flames cast a wavering shadow across the room. It blocked a majority of the light from reaching Jaskier directly, saving his eyes and thus his headache from being exasperated by the harsh light in a dark room. 

Only sparse details could Jaskier make out about Geralt since he was backlit by the hearth. Narrowing his gaze, he could make out the measured rise and fall of his shoulders as the other breathed. Each inhale taken several long seconds after the last exhale. Far too spaced apart to be human, but an unique sight Jaskier had become accustomed to. And knew it meant Geralt was indeed meditating. 

Given those observations, Jaskier supposed the Witcher meditation pose appeared peaceful. At least as peaceful as could be in a single inn room with an ill travelling companion. Though Jaskier had to suppose that Geralt had had to rest through worse. 

A twinge from his middle had a grimace lining Jaskier’s face. Just as he was beginning to think he could distract himself through the worst of his stomach’s upset to fall asleep, it had to painfully remind him that he was ill. The bastard taciturn organ that it was. 

The pain abated quickly, however it left a dizzying swell of nausea in its wake. Jaskier closed his eyes in hopes to simply breath through the ill feeling, but with it came a welling of saliva to his mouth and he lurched back over the bed. Knowing no amount of breathing and laying still would quell it now. 

A gag tore through the bard’s frame a moment later, rolling his shoulder forward with its ferocity before a harsh retch brought forth several deep heaves. Abdomen muscle contracted forcefully with each heave that had his stomach contents once again spilling into the chamberpot. 

Falling into a fit of coughs against the burn of bile in the back of his throat, the vile taste along his tongue causing him to retch dryly a few more times before he was able to take a deeper breath. Relishing in the quelled of pressure within his stomach, even if the nausea hadn’t completely abated. It was more tolerable now. 

However the cramps assailing his middle continued without reprieve, eliciting a low moan from the bard. A trembling hand released its hold of the bedsheets to come up to clutch at his stomach at a particularly sharp pain that coursed along his midriff, breathing meditatively until it ebbed somewhat, but the grimace still marred his fair features at the persistent ache there. 

Geralt’s brow was furrowed, his lips pulled down to frown at the other’s visible discomfort, “How much pain are you in?” 

Jaskier shook his head minutely, wanting to cause as little fuss as he could in his condition, “It’s not that bad. Had worse.” 

“Jaskier.” Geralt near growled, tone a warning against the use of untruths. 

A sigh slipped past the bard’s lips in a gush, scrunching his eyes up against another cramp slicing through his middle, he tersely amended his answer, “Fine, it hurts. That’s not a lie. It is miserable act—.” 

His stomach apparently beyond desperate to ensure every last ounce of matter was expelled from it, had him heaving once again. Rather rudely interrupting him. Tremors now visibly coursed along his frame, a congression of shivering and physical manifestation of his exhaustion. 

Offhandedly he felt Geralt grab the back of his linen shirt, lending a modicum of physical support should his own strength fail him he guessed. The hold was strong and unwavering, not even when Jaskier jerked forward with the force of another harsh retch did he feel as if he’d fall. But any further thoughts towards it, grateful or otherwise, Jaksier was violently sick once again, heaving horridly for a handful of moments before it eased once more. 

All he could do was breath afterwards, each inhale laboured and heavy. Utterly spent and still his stomach ached, fierce cramps mingled with the soreness of overtaxed muscles. 

Gods, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this sick before. And he hadn’t exactly been a child of a healthy constitution nor had he been adverse to the allure of alcohol when he’d set out upon the world. 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s voice weaselled passed the haze of misery that’d overcome Jaskier’s sense as he fought to gather his bearings again. 

It was the concern he could decipher in the Witcher’s tone, something his fevered mind told him was very _wrong_ , that had him offering a low groan in response. Not feeling up to something more complex like words, let alone stringing them together to create sentences. 

“Jaskier.” 

The insistence had Jaskier sighing on his next breath, an unwitting twinge of guilt for being the one to place that edge to Geralt’s tone, thus it spurred him to answer, “‘m fine.” 

A quiet breath was heard from the Witcher, but instead of further conversation a gentle hand came to lay against Jaskier’s shoulder that applied gentle but steadfast pressure to push him away from the edge of the bed. The hand still gripped with the folds of the back of his shirt pulled to help angle him back to lay down. 

Once he was, the hands disappeared, only for one to return and press against his forehead. It was frigidly cold to the touch and he flinched at the contact, trying to turn away from the hand that seemed insistent upon feeling his forehead then cheek and neck. 

The hand disappeared once again followed by a quietly vented, “Fuck.” 

Jaskier peeked open his eyes from when he closed them to still the whirling of the room as he was moved, it had settled now that he was laying somewhat flat but a lightheadedness remained that warned him against moving too much or too quickly. Even the glance of his eyes towards where Geralt had moved to grab the shallow wash basin and water jug from the table to pour the water left from the latter into the former. 

Hazily he tracked the movements, unable to understand what he had done wrong. It wasn’t until Geralt stepped back towards his side with the wash basin and a handkerchief in hand. Setting the basin on the nightstand and dipping the handkerchief in the water, then wringing the excess water from it before peeling it from its crumpled state to fold it into thirds. 

“I’m fine.” Jaskier repeated, realising now what had the Witcher fretting so. Even if the other wouldn’t admit to such an emotion. 

“Hm.” Came Geralt’s unconvinced response, proceeding to reach out with the wet cloth to place it on Jaskier’s forehead. 

Jaskier shuddered, his hand absently coming up to touch the impromptu face flannel, “Oh that is frigid.” 

“Leave it.” The Witcher warned. 

Jaskier let his hand flop back down at his side onto the bed, sighing heavily. Although he had to admit, once it sat a moment, the coolness of the cloth began to feel good against his heated skin. Easing a bit of the ache at his temples, despite the way he shivered a slight harsher at its presence. 

He thanked the Gods Geralt hadn’t taken the blanket from him, his governess growing up had always done so the moment she thought she felt a fever and he rather hated it. Thus he didn’t wish to draw attention to the fact he still had it by pulling it more so up on himself. It was probably for the better in the long since he did have a fever and a blanket covering half his frame instead of none was better than the latter. 

“Think you can manage a drink now?” Geralt asked, having gone back towards the fire with the horn mug and back again to Jaskier’s bedside. 

Jaskier hesitated, “I can’t guarentee anything.” 

“Hm, that’s fine.” 

To Jaskier’s ears, it sounded anything but to Geralt. It was then that the bard remembered that some of Geralt herb supply had been running low. The Witcher having made mention of it when they were headed towards this town, purpose for stopping here particularly being to find work as well as to restock a bit. 

“You shouldn’t waste it, Geralt.” Jaskier said instead of taking the proffered mug. 

Geralt’s brow furrowed deeper than the bard had yet to ever witness, his frown pulling down more to one side than the other. If Jaskier hadn’t been such a quick study when it came to reading his boorish, silent friend’s expressions he’d have been lost long ago. Yet this one held open bemusement. It took no guessing nor inferring on Jaskier’s part. This in turn baffled the bard. 

“It’s already brewed.” Came Geralt response a moment later, still a touch perplexed, “And I can make more.” 

Conversation interrupted by a unpleasant flutter from his stomach, Jaskier pressed a hand to it with a muffled grunt. Swallowing thickly and repeatedly, he hoped it’d settled without another spell. He closed his eyes and steady his breathing, a handful of breaths and it quieted a touch. Only queasy now instead of nausea, even the intermittent cramps seemed to lessen. 

“Perhaps later.” Jaskier rasped, opening his eyes to look up at Geralt. Noting the sharpness to the amber gaze as he did so. 

“Hm.” Was all Geralt answered, but he obliged by setting the mug aside and grabbing the cloth from Jaskier’s forehead to dip it into the wash basin, wrong it out then replace it back. 

Jaskier sighed, this time in relief. The cold cloth now feeling blessed on his forehead. He licked his lips, they were dry, but he didn’t want to rise drinking anything quite yet. 

“I think I will sleep.” It was a true statement, unlike before he could feel fatigue tugging at his consciousness and laddening his eyelids. 

Geralt just grunted, although it was a satisfied sound. Even halfway asleep Jaskier could tell so. And as he drifted off, he swore he could feel the blanket being drawn up to his chest from where it’d gathered at his waist. 

… & …

The thick clouds that had herald snow only an hour’s past had thinned and parted to let through casts of moonlight. Muted and filtered since the breeze had picked up as the snowfall had waned. A glance out the small window had shown the snow to be no deeper than ankle height, but the surrounding temperature had dipped with the increase of the Northern wind. 

At noticing this, Geralt had forgone slipping back into mediation to mind the fire more closely. The delicate balance of keeping out the cold so as not to worsen Jaskier’s condition yet keep the bard cool enough that his fever wouldn’t run rampant upon his body. 

It had only been an hour since the bard had been able to successfully fall back asleep when Jaskier stirred again. A tiny movement and alteration to his breathing pattern ere he sat bolt upright, only to curl forwards with his arms encircling his middle, a strangled groan left his lips. 

Geralt turned from where he was tending the in-room fireplace, brow furrowed to match his frown, but there was little he could do to alleviate the bard’s suffering. Illnesses happened to humans. Although he wished it were a physical enemy he could vanquish and be done with, all he could do now was boil more herbs ( his supply dwindling faster than the hours could pass them by ) into a tea that would help, offer water whenever possible, keep the blankets near and the fire stoked. As well ensure the chamberpot was routinely cleaned and never far from the bed. 

“Chamberpot is beside the bed.” Geralt pointed out, knowing each time in the last several hours when Jaskier had jerked awake it’d been to retch up his stomach contents.

“Fuck, it isn’t that.” Jaksier groaned again, shifting now to shove the blankets off himself in a frantic scramble, “Gods, I need the privy.” 

Unable to do much but grimace in sympathy as Jaskier ran past him out the door, Geralt checked the steeping tea before rifling through his pack for another pair of socks for the idiot had fled without his boots. 

Dirt and bedclothes never meshed well for a good night's sleep, and with how little Jaskier was getting this night, every little bit helped in regards to comfort. Or so the Witcher hoped. With so little he could do, he found himself hoping the little things did make a difference here. 

He busied himself with his current tasks whilst waiting for the other to return, setting the cooling tea on the nightstand and refilling the water cup that already sat there. It was more beneficial to give the tea sparingly in case it was a toxin, born of food gone foul or tainted water, as it was best the body expel all that was poisonous to it. Only using it to ease the nausea to give leave for rest or if the retching continued after the stomach was empty. 

But Geralt hadn’t smelt anything amiss with the food they ate nor with the water they’d drunk, however he hadn’t been looking for anything off with what they’d had. His highly tuned senses caught both obvious and subtle scents, if something had gone bad or been poisoned he’d have smelt it and wouldn’t have eaten it, much less allowed Jaksier to. And Jaskier’s water skin only held boiled water, to ensure it was safe for him to drink. 

Not knowing the bard to have any food intolerances, least none that wouldn’t have presented themselves already with their usual fare not varying much whilst on the road, the Witcher had to conclude it was virulent sickness that Jaskier managed to catch. 

Something he couldn’t fight for the bard nor were there guaranteed preventions against such things that the Witcher could help implorent. Illness just happened at times in humans. 

Thankfully with his Witcher immunity, he could be around Jaksier without threat of catching it in turn. Not that would have stopped Geralt from staying around, but it certainly gave them an advantage that he wouldn’t fall victim to it and be unable to help care for Jaskier. 

Just as the Witcher was beginning to think he’d have to go after the bard to ensure he had fainted on the stairs, the door to their room banged open to emit said bard. Arms encircled around his middle and several shades paler than when he left, he looked ever more the picture of misery. Especially when he didn’t sit on the bed but flopped face down onto it. 

“So you didn’t shit yourself I take it?” Geralt aimed for levity in his words, the usually gravely tone lightening as best it could. 

Jaksier’s chuckle was muffled by the blanket, the groan that followed equally so until he turned on his side with a pained grimace that fought with an amused smile, “Oh that is unfair to make jokes when I can’t fully appreciate it. So rare is it to hear them from you.” 

“Hm. I’ll save them for later then.” Geralt stepped forward to pick up the still steaming but cooler mug of tea to offer it to Jaskier, “You need to drink.” 

The grimace won out at the thought of consuming anything at the moment, but the expression on the Witcher face told the bard that it’d be a fight to disagree and Jaskier wasn’t up for any sort of verbal exercise. Well, any exercise actually. 

“Can we start with water then?” Jaskier asked, swallowing thickly, “I don’t think I can stomach much of anything, let alone anything with flavour.” 

Geralt hmmed in a tone that both conveyed his acquiesce to Jaskier’s wish as well as his mounting disquiet over the amount of fluid the other had lost in such a short span of time. Dehydration would only worsen the bard’s condition. 

Switching out the cups, Geralt handed the one filled with water over. Not missing the way it shook with the tremble of the bard’s hand, although it remained steady enough for Jaksier to take several small sips before he made to hand it back. The Witcher wanted to insist the other drink more, but knew it was best to take it slow when introducing sustenance to an upset and deprived belly, so he took the cup back without complaint and set it back on the bedside table. 

Turning back, he found Jaskier curled more so on his side with his arms returned to their position wrapped around his midsection, and his eyes closed. A sheen of sweat glistened along his features, dampening the hair along his forehead and temples to near plaster it to the skin. In direct contrast to the supposed overheating, intermittent shivers wracked through the bard’s lithe frame. 

“Feeling worse again?” Geralt asked. 

“‘Again’ implies that I felt better to begin with.” Jaskier quipped without opening his eyes.

“Good to know this hasn’t quieted your mouth any.” Geralt was secretly pleased to hear the snark return to the bard’s tone, having been much more worried when the other had fallen silent or monosyllabic in his responses. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to give a snarked reply, but instead snapped his mouth shut with an audible clack as another groan slipped past his lips and he curled tighter. His breath quickening along with the shivers running up and down his frame. But before Geralt could do anything, Jaskier was scrambling off the bed once more and out the door. 

Sighing, Geralt brushed off the bed sheets from the bits of dirt and moisture that’d accumulated there when Jaskier laid down quicker than he expected. He picked up the extra pair of socks in one hand and setting them on the table as a reminder. 

Whilst he waited, he busied himself with adding another split log onto the andiron from the firewood rack beside the hearth. He’d have to replenish the stock tomorrow. He’d seen a surplus of it stacked and covered beside the stables. Hopefully he could grab a few without encuring an extra cost. It wouldn’t be the first time Geralt had to pay for something that would be complimentary to a standard boarder. 

Stoking the fire a tad with the poker to ensure the new log caught and didn’t smother any of the flames, Geralt too checked on the tea to ensure it didn’t over steep. It’d hardly do any good to poison the bard in addition to his current ailment. 

The Witcher paused then ere returning the pot and sniffing the brew, wanting to ensure it hadn’t done exactly that. No, it smelt weak to his nose, meaning it was exactly he prepared it. The mixture strength fit for a human, not a Witcher. 

A clamour at the door had Geralt straightening to stand, turning just in time to once again see Jaskier stumble inside their room. Features near grey coloured, he was so pale, and the tremours that shook his limbs appeared to be less so shivers and more like shakiness born of sheer exhaustion. 

But a glance at the bard’s socks had the Witcher calling out to stop him from getting back into bed with them on. 

“Wait.” 

Jaskier paused, one hand reached out to brace against the bed’s thin mattress, his other hand still protectively clutched around his stomach, looking towards Geralt. The Witcher simply held up the socks as explanation and looked down towards Jaksier’s feet, the bard’s gaze following the movement. 

“Ah, right. Yes, I suppose those need to be changed.” Jaskier said, moving gingerly to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching down to pull off one of his damp socks had him sitting back with a breathless gasp. 

It took only a moment for whatever colour remained in the bard’s face to drain before he lunged towards the chamber pot that sat on the floor nearer the head of the bed. Slipping off the side in his haste, his knees cracked against the wood flooring but he managed to get his head over the porcelain receptacle before beginning to retch. 

Stepping forward, Geralt knelt next to the ill bard to place a hand on his back. A memory came unbidden to Geralt’s mind of doing a similar action for Eskel, the other Witcher had taken White Honey to clear a Black Blood potion from his veins after a fight with two bruxas that Geralt had joined him on. A rare occasion they’d both been in the same area with two different contracts for the same monster. An unusual case thus they had decided to take it together and split the profit. 

The aftereffects of the potions had left Eskel on his hands and knees vomiting into the grass once the tussle was done. It was not an unique reaction to the potion combination, unpleasant but it happened on occasion. And Geralt had wanted to extend the modicum of comfort whilst Eskel rode out the side effects, dry heaves and all. 

The action had seemed appreciated then by his brother, though Eskel hadn’t been in much a state to comment on it nor was Geralt really to focus much past keeping his fellow wolf from collapsing into his own vomit. But Geralt hoped it had helped then, and that it would do so here. If anything he’d be close if Jaskier did pass out. Which didn’t seem unlikely, although he hoped the bard wasn’t that bad off. 

A round of coughing followed the heaving before he heard Jaksier spit a few times. No more heaves nor retches followed, yet the bard made no motion to move away or sit back. Remaining on his hands and knees, breathing heavily.

“Still feeling sick?” Geralt asked, ensuring it was an easily answered ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question that could be answered with a shake of head if needed, uncertain if the bard simply didn’t possess the strength to get back into bed or was still nauseated. 

Although there was precious little in the bard’s stomach for him left to lose. 

Jaskier simply nodded minutely, not looking up nor verbally answering. To which Geralt frowned, keeping his hand where it lay on Jaskier’s back, he reached up to the nightstand to grab the cloth that lay on the edge of the bowl there. Squeezing it to wring out the excess water, he fanned it out the best he could one handed whilst trying to keep it somewhat folded so he could lay it across the back of Jaskier’s neck. 

The bard shuddered at the sudden change in temperature, and Geralt feared he’d only caused more discomfort until Jaskier sighed. The sound was more of a relief than anything. 

Another few moments passed, until Jaskier gathered a shaky sounding breath, “Mind helping me back up to bed?” 

Wordlessly, Geralt picked up the cloth to set it back into the basin on the nightstand so it wouldn’t fall onto the dusty room floor before sliding Jaskier’s arm over his shoulders and wrapping his other arm round his waist. Mindful of the bard’s condition, the Witcher moved slowly yet efficiently to stand up and help set Jaskier on the bed. Removing his hold once the other was sitting, but keeping a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder when the bard swayed precariously. 

“With me?” Geralt asked, noting the rather glazed look to Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes and the brighter flush that graced the bard’s cheeks. A stark contrast to the pallidness of the rest of his face. 

Jaskier swallowed, nodded and tried to offer a smile, but it was a wane attempt. He looked utterly spent and miserable. It was a good sign to see he was still cognizant at least. It was only a quick moment to replace the bard’s snow sodden socks with the dry pair. The sole of Jaskier’s feet were freezing to the touch, and had a Geralt frowning but they’d warm once they were dry and under the blanket, he knew.

Forgoing his want to have Jaskier drink something before laying down, Geralt helped him lie back by keeping a hand on his shoulder until he was flat. He let Jaskier pull at the blanket whilst he wrung out the handkerchief in the wash basin and laid it across Jaskier’s forehead when he was settled. Already he could hear the dip in the bard’s breathing and heart rate that signalled he was dropping off to sleep. 

“Sleep, bard.” 

The ‘well’ in between those words went unspoken, but no less implied. 

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Geralt is rather a sweet caretaker, even if it’s gruff & uncertain in way of comfort, he’s smart & practical when dealing with it. But is Jaskier out of the woods yet ? … Hmm , I’d say not so , not yet at least. 
> 
> Anyway ! If anyone is interested in knowing it, the inspiration for this fic actually came from rereading Blood of Elves , since in that book when Triss falls very ill with food poisoning whilst on the road with Geralt & Ciri. Geralt was patient when they had to stop a lot for Triss multiple times , he tries to give her medicine / convince a knight to let them stay to recuperate , even helped her to the woods & back , & he along with Ciri bathe Triss when she cannot herself. So I wanted to envision Geralt doing somewhat the same for Jaskier at least in the tender care & comfort bit. Thus this came from that want. As well as it’s only a matter of time before Jaskier fell ill whilst travelling with Geralt, that sort of lifestyle is rough & wrought with meeting all sorts of dangers , including viruses. 
> 
> Now if you’re feeling up for it , please leave a comment or tap the kudos button ! I’d love to hear what you think ; even if it’s a reaction or thought or a simple ‘i like this’ or ‘i didn’t like this’. But if you’re merely here to just read , that’s all right as well. I hope you enjoyed reading this !


	4. Not Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Things deviate a bit in this chapter , but it’s necessary I promise ! It will all make sense in the end & hopefully make for a good rounded story. 
> 
> Massive thank yous & my forever gratitude to BlaiddGwyn (dragonLieghs) , More_familiar_wilds , orangewaffuru , sheep_in_a_spaceship , Zaara , & Guest 2:electric boogaloo for commenting ! Truly all your kind words have made this story writing experience absolutely superb thus far & have fuelled my muse for writing , as well as made me smile to no end ! Thank you ! 
> 
> I have no beta so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _The Witcher_. Neither am I associated with Andrzej Sapkowski , Netflix , the publication companies of the books , nor any of the actors who portray these characters. I make no money off any of my stories , this is purely for entertainment purposes.

" Taking care of loved ones in my world was not based on affection. It was based on the fear of losing them.” **\- Clemantine Wamariya ; _The Girl Who Smiled Beads: A Story of War and What Comes After_**

A natural quiet had settled upon the small town, the snowfall having given the atmosphere that unique muffled and soft quality that always came at the cusp of winter. Before the world awoke and began its day. Barely ankle deep, the powdery fluff clung to Geralt’s boots and gave the barest of crunches beneath his feet as he walked. Still the sound was muted against the hush of the air. 

The wind had died down to a faint breeze. Not so powerful to stir the snow laden branches of the surrounding trees from the dusting they had received from the snowfall, hardly a whisper against the Witcher’s skin nor a gentle ruffle of his loose shirt. 

Although he suspected the air held a noticeable chill. The snow wouldn’t have stuck to the ground so thoroughly nor would his breath be visible in ghostly billows if it hadn’t, but there was a tangible scent of harvest still about the air and the cloud cover had nearly all dispersed by now. 

Autumn was clinging to the aether, unwilling yet to submit to winter’s turn. The snow would be gone to puddles by tomorrow night, or rather by tonight, seeing as dawn was no more than an hour off. The lightning of the horizon hadn’t yet risen enough to be seen over the trees nor through the underbrush, the sky remained dark and star-dotted. Geralt gave it until mid-morning ere the snow began to melt. 

Judging by the weather’s behaviour and his many years experience in the wilds, Geralt estimated they had a few weeks left ere travelling would become ill advised. Another week thereafter before it would be deemed dangerous, nearing impossible with a human in tow. 

Sighing to himself, Geralt set about the reason he’d ventured outside in the first place. It’d become something of a routine by this hour. One of taking the chamberpot outside to be emptied and rinsed, then back into their room to place it at the bedside well within reach of the ailing bard. 

Geralt hadn’t been keeping count of how many times he’s made this trip to cleanse the chamberpot, but briefly thinking back throughout the night has his concern over the amount of fluid Jaskier lost returning. Not that it ever truly left, but with the bard finally sleeping soundly once more it had eased. Sleep would be helpful in restoring Jaskier to health, however it’d do nothing of the sort if his body had naught in reserve to draw from. 

Returning to their room, footsteps soundless despite the creaky nature of floorboards on the stairs, Geralt’s gaze was drawn towards where Jaskier slept when he entered. The bard’s breathing was deep and unhindered, whatever this illness was it appeared to have solely struck Jaskier’s gut, not his lungs. That fact made it no less worrisome, for dysentery or developing typhoid weren’t ailments easily overcome. 

Equally as soundless, he closed the door to their room and walked over to place the chamberpot back where it’d taken up residence within range on the floor beside the bed. Visually checking the bard over more keenly, attempting to spy the beginnings of a rash that’d indicate this being something other than a severe stomach upset. 

Unblemished was the skin along the bard’s face and neck, pallid ( minus a visible fever blush ) and a touch sweaty, but unmarred by rose spots. Reaching out to gingerly pull the other’s loose, unlaced under tunic down to reveal the upper portion of his chest, Geralt saw naught of it there either. He pulled down the blanket marginally to then lift up the bottom of it to check the flash along his belly revealed the same. No blotches nor raised spots tainted the pale skin. 

Fears of typhoid allayed for the moment, Geralt fixed Jaskier’s shirt back and laid the blanket over him once again. Although he didn’t pull it up quite as high as Jaskier had it, the deepened hue of scarlet along his cheeks had him worried about worsening his fever. Beside the Witcher could feel the heat practically emitting from the other’s frame. 

Thus Geralt then picked up the handkerchief they’d been using as a flannel ( it was warmed and drying at the edges ) to dip it into the shallow fill of water in the wash basin. Absently he noted the water wasn’t as cool as it had been earlier, ere wringing it out and replacing it upon Jaskier’s forehead. 

A soft moan came from the bard once the cloth touched his heated skin, the sound one of discomfort, but the other didn’t wake. Geralt was grateful for it, despite knowing Jaskier needed fluids, it gave him the time needed to take stock again. 

Stepping back and over to the small table to grab the ceramic water jug. It’s meagre contents barely sloshed at the bottom, telling it was down to mere dredges. Glancing back towards the bed where Jaskier slept on, Geralt gauged he could leave again to refill the jug without much incident. More water would be needed whether he’d be missed or not for the few minutes it would take. 

Retreating from the room and down the stairs once more, footfalls equally as quiet as they had been earlier in deference to anyone still abed. Although he could hear the innkeeper and his family in the kitchen now, preparing the morning meal and setting up for those to follow. He slipped outside without any of them hearing him over the clatter of dishware and ambient noise of cooking that filtered through from the swinging door to the kitchen. The sounds of boiling water, sizzle of meat over a fire, the sharp snapping of chopped vegetables, a subtle beat of a rolling pin on dough, the grating of a pestle on nuts and baked barley to grind them finely, and the low yet snapped instruction that came from the innkeeper or an older woman who sounded to be the wife followed him out the main door. 

The approaching dawn had now illuminated the blackness of a night sky to a light indigo, a gradient hue that grew lighter at the east and darker towards the west. Soon the sun would fully crest the horizon to begin the morning, however there were a few out and about now. He could hear the blacksmith down the road lighting and stoking the forge’s fire, as well as a woman collecting eggs from her hen house whilst she muttered sweetly to the hens within. 

Drawing water from the well was a less quiet process than it should have been. The pulley was well worn with use, despite being free from rust and decay, it squeaked and chirped as it lurched upwards from the water below. Water had added cumbersome weight to the rigging and sloshing it over the bucket’s sides, but once pulled to the top and hefted over the well lip onto its wall, there was still more than enough within to fill the jug. To which Geralt did so. 

Passing by the communal woodpile for those staying at the inn, he picked up a few of the chopped logs to bring up to their room. Discreetly tucking them close to his frame, not hiding them per se, but keeping them inconspicuous so as not to incur any special tax that Witchers tended to get tacked onto regular complimentary services by bold and fussy innkeepers. Unwilling to risk it since conserving his coin for medicine, or possibly a healer’s skill, for Jaskier would be necessary yet keeping a roof over the ailing bard’s head too was paramount. 

Thus if the innkeeper proved to be one of those types to cheat a Witcher in one of the seezlest ways, then Geralt would have to pay it or risk being thrown from the inn ( or the town itself ) and have Jaskier face the elements whilst ill because if pattern continued, as Geralt sups eyes would, the bard would follow loyally at his side. Nothing yet had parted Jaskier from his company, harsh conditions nor prejudice townsfolk, neither horrid monsters nor a taicturn Witcher had done so. Meaning Geralt doubted illness would be the thing to do it. 

Squashing the voice at the back of his mind that brought up the notion of Jaskier being too physically weak to follow, that no amount of will summoned could combat the frailty fever and dehydration brought upon a body, the Witcher walked to the inn and through the main room to the stairs up to their room without incident. He heard the innkeeper and his family still working diligently in the kitchen, and no guests had yet made their way downstairs to await breakfast. None witnessed his parting nor any his return, even Jaskier remained snoring lightly away when he came through the door. 

Geralt set the water jug on the table, then moved over towards the hearth to set the firewood in its rack. The fire still burnt steadily, it didn’t need anymore wood as of yet, but now there was plenty to add to it without needing to leave to retrieve some for the rest of the day. 

Swiping his hands across the fabric of his trousers once then twice to rid them of the clinging bits and slivers of wood bark, Geralt walked over the table to retrieve the now filled water jug to bring it over to pour some of it into the basin on the nightstand. The water smelt fresh and had a crisp tang to its scent that only came from water when it was cold. 

He too poured some more into the water mug on the bedside table as well ere he returned it to its place on the table. The clutter was enough on the nightstand with the two mugs and basin sitting on it. It was then that he repeated the now patterned process of removing the flannel from Jaskiers forehead to dip it into the water of the basin and replace it back. 

Jaskier’s cheeks still remained rosy hued, the rest of his features hadn’t regained much colour aside from the fever flush, but the colour seemed less so red than earlier and the rampant chills had died down. No longer did he tremble nor unconsciously try to curl into the mattress. In fact, Geralt could smell the sweat as much as see it, it having dampened the bard’s hair enough for it to cling to his temples and forehead. And Jaskier seemed to release a sigh in his sleep as he placed the flannel across his brow once again, a relieved one judging by the way he relaxed further and his breathing remained steady, deep. 

Geralt kept with the pattern of doing such in periodic intervals until he heard more noise coming from downstairs, simple ambience that belonged to an inn house waking up and preparing for the day. The sounds of patrons gatherings and breaking their fasts, the innkeeper making morning conversations whilst his children ran drinks and food to guests, and others about the town stopping by for food or drink or conversation ere the day truly began and work needed to be done. 

After replacing the flannel once last time, Geralt set about putting on his armour to go down for breakfast. Going down in just his trousers, boots, and linen shirt with so many awake and present wasn’t a smart idea. Not only did it leave him vulnerable if he did, it didn’t exactly paint a smart image for a Witcher. 

Taking a handful of moments to properly dress before he headed downstairs himself, Geralt forwent bringing his steel sword with him. It was intimidating to see a Witcher armed, something he didn’t want the innkeeper to focus on when he paid for a second night nor when he made a special request from the kitchen. Too often his mere looks had had him turned away from accommodations. But he wasn’t entirely without protection for himself, he had his signs, years of hand-to-hand training, and there was the hunting knife he kept in his boot at all times. 

The common hall was far warmer now, the fire pit at the centre of it was built up to burn hot and high. A swirl of chilled air would waft through at intermittent intervals when the door was shoved open to emit another patron seeking hearth and food away from the cold that still malingered outside. It clung to the last vestiges of night until the sun rose enough to banish the shadows cast and warm the shade. Morning’s light was slowly banishing the snow, even if the chilled wind presisited. 

Seated at a back corner table, his chair facing the room so his back didn’t have to, Geralt sipped at the inn’s version of an antifogmatic. It was a touch watery and sour, probably due to the use of strong cider instead of actual vodka. He should have asked to substitute for a beer. 

At least the morning meal was pleasant tasting. It seemed the wife, who appeared to mind the cooking, had her patron’s tastebuds in mind whilst her husband, who handled all the drinks, did not. The morning fare was ground buckwheat boiled until soft with a thick slice of freshly baked oat bread. The cook had used milk instead of water for the kasha, thus it held a sweetness to it that was complemented by the addition of crushed almonds, a lacing of honey, and a few overripe dates. It was thick and sticky, no doubt made so to be hearty and filling in addition to the dense bread and hot drink for those headed out to brace the cooler weather after that viciously cold yet fleeting snowstorm. 

He finished his meal quickly compared to all others who were seated about, having no one to interrupt with conversation since Jaskier was still abed and none else would approach a Witcher for idle chatter. Geralt stood with his dishes in hand, finishing off the dredges from his mug. Despite it’s strange taste, he wouldn’t waste it. He’d drank worse things after all. 

He headed towards where the innkeeper was wiping down washed tankards and mugs at the counter. The man had a thinning hairline, deep set brown eyes that held more wrinkles at their corners than his age should have, and a beard that was flecked with grey hairs. It was the absence of similar lines round his mouth that told Geralt this man had got those crow’s feet and worry lines by squinting and narrowing his eyes more than by laughter or expressions of happiness. 

The innkeeper glanced up at catching another’s approach, quickly setting aside the rag and dish he was wiping to give his full attention, “What is it?” 

His words weren’t unkind nor defensive, simply straight to the point and curious enough to know that he was listening, to which Geralt could appreciate since he was used to varying degrees of fear or hostility when dealing with humans. Rarely did they stray from that. 

“Five crowns for another night’s stay.” Geralt said, it was the same rate the innkeeper had charged yesterday. 

“Aye. That's the going rate for all rooms.” The innkeeper agreed without batting an eye or any attempts at weaselling more money from the Witcher, “No one is booked for that room after you, so another night it is and five crowns is due.” 

Geralt handed the coins over without a word, it was expensive, but less so than if they stayed in a well visited town or a city. And Jaskier would need the extra day to recuperate. It was a must expense. 

“And would it be possible to place an order of plain broth.” Geralt asked the innkeeper whilst he passed his dishes off to the pot-girl who came up to collect them from him. He’d seen her serving and clearing tables all morning. 

“We don’t really do alterations from the set menu, Witcher.” The innkeeper answered, handing a used tankard to the girl as well to take back to be washed. 

“You don’t keep it on hand? For cooking?” Geralt further asked, a touch confused over why an inn’s kitchen wouldn’t have it ready to add to stews or soups and gravies. 

“Aye, we do, but it’s as you say; it’s for cooking.” Replied the innkeeper with a subtle air of offence coloured his tone, “The morning fare wasn’t enough for you?” 

Keeping his features set, Geralt instead responded with, “My travelling companion is ill.” 

The innkeeper's face went stern, “Ill you say?” 

Sensing the undercurrent of fear and building ire within the innkeeper’s scent, Geralt adopted a smidge more of an exasperated tone to the gruffness of his voice, “The idiot drank more than he could manage. He’s bemoaning a headache and tender stomach.” 

It was a lie. A simple one that was easily feasible. It was better than risking them being kicked out with Jaskier still needing time to recover and the next village over was nearly a two days ride from this one. He wouldn’t risk Jaksier’s health because the innkeeper held superstitions. 

The innkeeper’s scent lost its bitter twang of suspicion, he scoffed a laugh, “You should leave him to suffer. Might teach him a lesson well needed.” 

At his comments being met with silence, the innkeeper cleared his throat, “I can see what we can do, so long as you’re willing to pay for the extra effort.” 

Geralt merely fished out a few coins from the pouch to drop onto the stained and pitted wood of the bar between them. The innkeeper’s lips pursed a slight, features unchanging otherwise ( there was the weaselling Geralt had been prepped for ) and because Geralt truly did need something Jaskier could stomach whilst convalescing, he placed two more coins with the three already on the wood. 

“That should do it.” The man said, satisfied as he collected up the coins, “It’ll be but a few minutes.” 

“Thanks.” Was all Geralt said, ending the conversation there. 

The sound of footsteps headed towards Geralt had the Witcher unconsciously tensing and angling his head to throw a glance over his shoulder. Even though he stood so his back hadn’t been fully towards the room to begin with, this man was coming towards him out of his line of vision. 

Yet at his look, despite its neutral albeit suspicious cast, the man halted, seeming uncertain for a moment before proceeding, “Eh, sorry if I startled ye. I wasn’t meaning any harm. Just to ask if ye be looking fer some work? Yer one of ‘em Witchers, right?” 

Attention successfully caught, Geralt turned to fully face the man, noting the greying hairs and weather beaten appearance of the other, “Yes. To both.” 

The man offered Geralt a kind smile, “I’m glad to hear it. See, a few of those drowners and something mean I can’t think to name have made a home of my farm’s pond. Don’t right know how they came to, but my cows are being slaughtered.” 

Geralt nodded, lips pressed thin, “Has there been a drought here recently, or any diverting of your river?” 

A stunned look came to the man’s tanned features, “Aye, the new alderman had some of us damn the river in portions and digging a series of canals fer better watering fer the fields. How’d you guess it?” 

“Drowners prefer rivers and lakes, they too will inhabit sewers and nearly any place with water deep enough to swim,” Geralt explained, “But if it’s new then something must have driven them from their original home.”

“Ah I see, but do you think you could get rid of them and whatever other creature that they brought with them?” Asked the man, looking worried Geralt would deny his offer of work, “I can’t pay ye much, but I’d give ye choice pick from the morning’s cuts of meat in addition to the coin I have.” 

Geralt hesitated, normally he’d agree since there wasn’t any other work present in this town, but he had Jaskier to consider since the bard wasn’t well. Had he been hale, the Witcher wouldn’t have any qualms over leaving. He’d even attempt to sneak away without having the zealous nature of the other tagging along for the hunt. Now however it gave Geralt pause. Leaving when the bard’s condition hadn’t improved much posed a risk, yet they could use the coin and the food being offered. Especially since Jaskier had been so ill. 

Geralt hmmed near silently to himself, withholding a sigh lest it came across as begrudging, and instead asked a pseudo-question of his own, “Tell me about this other creature.” 

“Can’t say much on it.” The man shook his head sadly, “It’s hunched and vile looking, from what I caught a look of when running from it. I can take ye to the pond, ye can see fer yerself before ye decide if that’ll better answer what ye need?” 

Geralt nodded, and was about to verbally agree when the innkeeper came back with the bowl of broth and a small beer with it. This drew the Witcher’s attention as well as the man’s. 

“There.” The innkeeper said, “I watered the beer down a bit, the wife says it’s a good hangover cure for your friend. Not enough to add to it, but enough to sate the body’s want for more drink.” 

“Thanks.” Geralt took the items in hand, whilst the innkeeper nodded and turned to return to the kitchen. 

“Ah, I see I’ve caught ye at a poor time.” The man sighed, rubbing a hand through his short beard. 

Geralt did breath a soundless sigh, then, “No. I’ll come. Let me deliver this.” 

The man brightened, nodding more vigorously than his neck seemed to tolerate, “Yes, yes, of course. Take yer time. Meet me outside by the main well? I have to draw water from there nowadays so I’ll be there.” 

Geralt nodded and watched the man depart ere he turned towards the stairs to take up the fare to the room. Wondering now if Jaskier would even be awake to eat, let alone even want anything or could stomach it yet. If it was more than a passing stomach upset then it was unlikely a meal would be well received, and a need for a healer would become immediate. There’d be no disguising it as mere drunkenness and a soured stomach from too much to drink then. 

Another sigh came forth to fall pass Geralt’s lips, this one large and audible, as he balanced the bowl and tankard in his hands to open the door to their shared room. The movement was seamless and soundless to not wake Jaskier quite yet. His gaze was immediately drawn to the bard, who was no longer sleeping on his back but had turned and curled up on his side. The blankets oddly wrapped around him now and the flannel had fallen from his forehead to wet the pillow. Tiny snores came from the bard’s open mouth ( a keener listen had Geralt noting they were normal snores of an exhausted man and not the congested ones of an ill one ) and the bard’s sweaty hair was splayed across the pillow wildly. 

Smothering the huff that wanted to take form, Geralt set the bowl and tankard on the table. Realising that Jaskier was sleeping deeply and fully now, he loathed to wake him more than he had this morning. Had the circumstance been any different, he would have woken the other with little care to how peacefully he slept. But perhaps this worked for the better, the broth would keep and was easily reheated later, and Jaskier could rest without trying to attend a hunt with Geralt whilst recovering. 

And Geralt was certain Jaskier would drag himself along, whether mending or not, to gather inspiration and information for his next song from this hunt. Especially with Winter arriving so soon, there was waning time to accompany the Witcher on hunts and travels. Jaskier didn’t seem the type to let the scarce opportunity pass him by. 

Yes, Jaskier would be safe here in the inn, just as always but especially since he wasn’t wholly healthy at present. 

Decision made, Geralt strode over to the bed to pick up the handkerchief serving as a flannel to wet it once more and place it back on Jaskier’s forehead. Then retreating to add a log to the fire, stoking it a bit with the poker to ensure it didn’t smother the flames entirely and caught before he grabbed up his saddlebags and swords. 

With a glance behind himself to ensure the bard remained asleep and all was well enough, Geralt left.

_TBC._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Oops , a bit of a cliffhanger here. If one could call it that ? This just seemed like a good place to halt the chapter ( & my word count was way surpassing my self-imposed 3k limit per chapter ) But the next chapter will be posted soon so not too much of a wait to see what happens I promise ! 
> 
> Now , if you please could leave a comment or tap the kudos buttons , I’d appreciate it ! Even if it’s just to hear of a thought or reaction or simple ‘i like this’ or ‘didn’t like it’ , I’d love to hear from you ! But as well if you’re here to merely read then that’s all right ! I hope you enjoyed reading ! 
> 
> && I’m not sure if anyone would want to , but if anyone does want to come yell about all things the witcher or a other fandoms , or etc. with me , my tumblr is @oftincturedwords. All are welcome ! 
> 
> **Notes :** Typhoid is a real illness. It’s symptoms are much like what Jaskier shows , that’s why Geralt is worried about it. He would know of the illness from his time travelling through & staying in villages throughout various states of wellness to the populace since he’s immune. But what he doesn’t know is the rash isn’t an initial symptom, it doesn’t show up until almost a week after the onset of symptoms. Not to say Jaskier has typhoid , but that's just how Geralt’s knowledge of medicine works. He knows how to treat most symptoms & injuries , but when it comes to diagnosing & the incratisies of sicknesses , he more so lacks in. 
> 
> **Notes :** Dysentery ( as well known as ‘the bloody flux’ or ‘the flux’ ) is another real illness. It usually doesn’t cause vomiting, thus Geralt is sceptical of Jaskier having that, but doesn’t want to dismiss it outrightly. This note as well doesn’t mean Jaskier has this , I’m just giving some background information. Like I’m not even certain if anyone reads these little notes ? or if they’re even useful ? idk. 
> 
> **Notes :** Antifogmatic is rather a later term than I should have used here, it’s a 16th century word. I apologise, but I just love the term. Usually it’s made with brandy or whiskey, but since those too won’t be round for another two centuries or so, I said vodka because that is the canon spirit for The Witcher anyway, or at least it is for standard taverns since White Gull is for Witchers only. Anyway, an antifogmatic was a fortifying drink drunk in the morning to start the day , think coffee , but alcohol. 
> 
> **Notes :** Small beer doesn’t refer to the size of the beer, it refers to the alcohol content of the beer. A small beer or small ale held less alcohol content than regular ale or lager , it was sometimes thick and porridge-like & usually given to children or servants since it was cheaper than the higher alcohol content drinks. It was as well drunk routinely at meals if water or other wasn’t feasible or available.


End file.
